


Tension

by scribefindegil



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Backrubs, Friendship, Gen, I love the Director let her have nice things, Magnus is The Best At Hugs, Touch-Starved, look i'm following up on that coupon even if no one else is, platonic physical affection, pre-suffering game, worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9861584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil
Summary: The Director finally gets that backrub, and worries a lot.That's it that's the fic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I like to believe that the Director did eventually take Magnus up on that backrub coupon. Also that she is Trying Her Best.
> 
> Main section takes place between the Crystal Kingdom and Eleventh Hour arcs; tag takes place between Eleventh Hour and the Suffering Game.

She’s in the library when she hears the unmistakable noise of someone clearing their throat behind her. It’s rare for her to do much research herself—she has Seekers for that, and her administrative duties are undoubtedly more than one person should be handling. But what happened with Lucas—it shook her, far more deeply than she’s willing to admit. She’d trusted him. She’d trusted him and as a result she’d nearly ended up with nothing but a lifeless crystalized world.

So she’s been spending hours poring through the volumes in the Bureau’s library in case there’s some clue she’s missing, something that will help her understand. Some new lead. As long as they can learn something about one of the other remaining Relics, as long as she can find an excuse to put off Wonderland for a while longer . . .

She needs glasses to read now. It’s been long enough since she returned that she’s almost used to them, but it still stings.

She looks up from the table, lowering the hands that she’d had pressed to her temples, and sees Magnus standing there. He’s not in his armor, and he looks almost apologetic for a moment. Then he grins brightly and says, “So, Director, how about that backrub?”

“Is that why you’re here? Did . . . did you follow me, because that’s really not—”

“Oh, no, no!” Magnus shakes his head. “I was just coming in here to do some research! But I’m here, and you’re here, so I thought maybe it was a good time . . .”

She lets her head fall back into her hands. “Doesn’t the nature of the coupon imply that I should be the one to determine time and place?”

Magnus shrugs. “Of course! I just thought you looked . . .”

The pause stretches out between them. She looked what? Tired? Frustrated? . . . Old? Well, no wonder. She was all of those things. There was so much to do and she had so little time . . .

“. . . like you could use a break,” Magnus finally finishes.

She laughs, not intending for it to be as bitter as it sounds. She could always use a break. It’s just that she can very seldom justify taking one. Maybe she could have, once. But all the time in her life that she could have allotted to not working is gone now, vanished in a turn of the wheel and a fallen Queen.

“It would be deeply unprofessional,” she says, and Magnus doesn’t try to argue with her, just pulls a volume down from the shelves and joins her at the table. It seems . . . uncharacteristic for the fighter, although she does know for a fact that Killian caught him reading that “Caleb Cleveland: Kid Cop” book that Angus bought him for Candlenights and has been teasing him about it every chance she gets.

She steals a glance at the cover of the book as he sits down. It’s a compendium of symbols, magical and otherwise.

“I just wanted to check the meaning of some folk art motifs!” he says cheerfully. Of course he does.

It’s awkward for a moment, but then he settles into his work and she into hers and it’s . . . pleasant, almost. Magnus hums some off-key tune and honestly after years of Johan’s perfect melodies it’s nice to hear something less refined. Something more human.

There are more humans in the Bureau than other species, but there still aren’t very many. They’re all younger—they all _appear_ younger than her. And as far as anyone else knows, they are. Lucas had been the last one to know the woman she’d been before. The last to know Lucretia, who had been stubborn and hotheaded and so, so young. She’d been younger than Magnus was now when she set off for Wonderland, convinced that she alone could save the world. And when she came back, well . . . they said that wisdom came with age, and she was certainly wiser now. Wise enough to know that she couldn’t place all her faith in anyone, not even herself. That if she was going to deal with the relics she needed an organization. Individuals had to be expendable, but the Bureau would remain.

There were advantages to appearing older. It was much easier to command respect. That had helped her to establish the Bureau, ensured that the longer-lived races she encountered didn’t treat her like a child. If the Bureau fulfilled its purpose, it would be worth it. She believed that. But a part of her still ached, selfishly. A part of her still imagined everything she could have done with that lost time.

She lays down her book and stretches her arms above her head. They’re stiff from sitting. Some part of her is always stiff now, it seems. As she moves the joints of her shoulders crack audibly. Magnus stares at her, his head cocked to one side and his eyebrow raised.

She sighs.

“Fine.”

He jumps up like an excited puppy before she has time to second-guess herself, bounding around the table to stand behind her. Large hands rest on her shoulders.

“This will work better if you take your cloak off,” he says.

She unfastens the clasp at her throat and the garment slithers backwards to pool over the back of the chair. Her face flushes and she’s glad there’s no one there to see it, to recognize how . . . vulnerable she feels. She still has the thick fabric of her robe protecting her, but she can feel the warmth of Magnus’s hands.

Handshakes aside, she very seldom lets anyone touch her. Healers, when necessary. Tailors, when she needs a new robe. Business transactions. Not like this. Not . . . friends.

Lucas had been Lucretia’s last friend. He and Maureen used to hug her when she visited, when they talked about all the things they hoped to accomplish. After Wonderland they had stopped. Or rather, she had stopped them, terrified of how different her body felt, how her skin hung soft on her bones and wrinkles feathered out around her eyes. It was easier not to think about it. Not to feel.

The Director told herself that her lifestyle didn’t allow for friends. There was always so much to do, and she couldn’t afford to waste time. And the turnover rate was high; this was dangerous work and they all knew it, but it still hurt every time the lost someone.

It’s dangerous to think of Magnus as a friend. It was dangerous to do that with anyone, but especially with the human who, the first time she met him, had unhesitatingly thrown himself through a wall of glass to help his companion. He was strong, but she found that every time the Reclaimers left she steeled herself for the worst, and every time he returned a part of her was surprised. Relieved. Happy. But the surprise came first.

His hands are so gentle. It shouldn’t have shocked her—she’d seen some of the carvings he’d made, knew that such craftsmanship required just as much finesse as strength—but she’d braced herself as if she expected to take a blow. Instead, Magnus runs his thumbs across the top of her shoulder blades, steady and slow. Testing.

He makes a dissatisfied little noise. “You have a _lot_ of tension in here.”

She snorts. “No shit.”

And then Magnus laughs, and the tension in the room dissipates even though the tension in her shoulders doesn’t.

Not yet, anyway. Magnus works slowly, but she can tell he knows what he’s doing. She had suspected that Taako was joking when he said Magnus’s services were in high demand, but now it’s clear that the elf had a point.

“Tell me if I go too hard,” Magnus says, and pushes the pad of his thumb deep into one of the knots he’s located. It hurts, but in a good way, and when he lets up the pressure she rolls her shoulders and feels the muscles move more freely than they have in a long time.

“Okay?” he asks.

She breathes out. “Yeah. Okay.”

And she lets herself relax.

There are so many things to worry about, but she pushes them away for now. Pushes everything away. Closes her eyes and lets her head fall forward as Magnus massages the base of her neck. He pinpoints another knot and she makes a noise that would be deeply embarrassing under any other circumstances, but Magnus just laughs and says, “I know, right?” and talks her through some stretches that he insists will help if she does them regularly.

“Breathe in.”

She obeys.

“You really ought to take better care of yourself,” Magnus says, and then rolls his knuckles along the edge of her left shoulder blade. The breath puffs out of her lungs and for a moment she’s too winded to object. She’s sure that Magnus is smirking, pleased with his timing. It’s not his usual modus operandi but the fighter can be quite clever if he chooses to make the effort.

“Says the man who once _ate_ one of the Grand Relics!” she snaps when she’s able to speak again. It’s meant to be a joke, but she isn’t sure that she’s gotten the intonation right.

Fortunately, Magnus laughs. His hands leave her back as he throws them into the air. “That was one time!”

He works on her other shoulder for a while, and when she speaks again it isn’t a joke, because part of her is honestly uncertain. “You do realize that could have killed you?” she asks. “In all honesty I’m astonished that it didn’t.”

His hands freeze, just for a second. “Plenty of things could have killed me.” His tone is light and carefree. “I don’t really worry about it. I just count myself lucky that they didn’t!”

There’s a pause, and the fingers of his left hand worry at the ring he still wears all these years later. The Director knows about Raven’s Roost; the Bureau conducts thorough background checks on its new recruits before their Test of Initiation, and the story of his life is filed away in her office. She’s never mentioned it; it hasn’t been relevant and it feels impolite. If the Reclaimers want to escape their pasts, far be it from her to interfere.

“I just hope . . .” he says quietly, “When it does happen . . . that I’m doing something . . . good. Cooler than trying to eat a rock, anyway. Will you tell the Voidfish I died doing something cool? I don’t want it to think I’m a loser or something.”

“I hope that I won’t have to,” says the Director.

Neither of them know where to go from there, so Magnus finishes the backrub in silence. She jumps when his fingers touch the bare skin of her neck and he pulls back, already apologizing.

“No,” she says, “No, it’s fine. You startled me. That’s all.”

His hands are warm, and soft despite their callouses, and she can smell the beeswax he uses to polish his woodcarvings. And it’s been so long since she allowed herself this kind of contact, this kind of comfort. She closes her eyes and leans back into his touch.

She’d never really been much of one for physical affection. Not like Magnus is—she wasn’t sure if there was a single member of the Bureau who had gone un-hugged in the face of his cheerful exuberance—but she finds herself relaxing, floating to that calm place she was supposed to reach in meditation but that had eluded her grasp for too long. The pulsing headache in her temples fades, and the deep-set worries that have knotted themselves into her muscles begin to dissipate.

“You’re very good at this,” she admits.

She can hear the grin in his voice. “Yep! It was an unofficial part of my carpentry training. Can’t have your muscles seizing up if you want to keep cutting wood every day! Back home, people used to buy me drinks at the pub in exchange for one of these bad boys.”

“Well,” she sighs as he removes his hands from her neck, “In that case I appreciate the coupon.”

Magnus steps around to his side of the table, stretching his arms out in front of him.

“Listen,” he says, “Any time!”

She stands, smoothing out her robe and lifting her cloak to refasten it.

“As . . . surprisingly enjoyable as this was, I really can’t allow it to become a habit. I’m your boss, and it’s just . . . no. One-time thing.”

Of course it’s at that moment exact moment that Taako and Angus appear in the doorway of the library. Angus looks confused. Taako looks _delighted_. Magnus looks defensive. The Director finishes fastening her cloak and absolutely refuses to let herself blush.

“Are we . . . inter- _rupt_ -ing something?” Taako asks, and she shoots him her best withering stare.

Magnus wiggles his fingers and grins. “Come on, Taako, you know you want in on this!”

As Taako protests half-heartedly, Magnus circles around the table and hugs him so tight his feet are dangling a foot off the floor. Taako squeaks. Then Magnus shifts his grip and begins massaging the elf’s shoulders, and Taako goes limp.

“Hey, Ango my man,” he mutters, “Just . . . just study Mage Hand by yourself or some shit. My brain cells are about to fucking _ascend_.”

For once, the Director doesn’t try to hide her smile.

*

They come back from Refuge different, and she knows that she can’t keep stalling. She can’t let them burn out before Wonderland.

So she makes them train as hard as they can, and she speaks harshly when she sees them but mostly she hides herself away so she doesn’t have to see them, see her _friends_ being ridiculous and infuriating and . . .

She’s sending them to their deaths.

Technically, if Taako’s ranting about everything that happened in Refuge is to be believed, she’s done that already some ten or so times. But that was different. She hadn’t known. And those loops reset, so that no matter how much they lost each hour they got it back at the beginning of the next one. It’s almost a cruel parody of how Wonderland works. There, the loops are different but the loss is constant.

And she hopes so badly for a miracle. That the training will be enough. That they’ll be lucky and only give up things they can bear to lose. That they’ll be stronger than she was.

“They’ll be all right! Won’t they, ma’am?” says Angus, after they see the trio off. She really should scold him for sneaking into her office, but she can’t find it in her to be angry. It’s good that he had the chance to say goodbye, in case . . .

She ruffles the boy’s hair. The Director is a planner, which means she’s already laying out contingencies for what the Bureau will do if only two Reclaimers come back, if only one does, if none of them do. If they make it back but are too broken to do anything else. She knows that she’ll lie awake at night imagining Taako or Merle returning empty-handed, unwilling to meet her eyes even though she knows better than anyone how the Escape Game works.

And she knows how the Bureau works, too. Everyone has to be expendable. It’s the only way.

But Angus, extraordinary as he is, is still only eleven, and so there are times when he deserves to be lied to.

“Of course they will,” she says, and the boy beams at her before scampering away. She watches him go, then slumps into her chair and cradles her head in her hands.

Her shoulders ache.


End file.
